Up and Down the Dial
by Swellison
Summary: Life is a highway, as Sam discovers while driving his brother's car. First season missing/expanded scenes.
1. Chapter 1

A/N This is a series of missing or expanded scenes covering every time Sam drives the Impala in first season through Dead Man's Blood. Some of the dialogue is borrowed from the episodes. Lyrics quoted at the beginning of the scenes are from each episode's soundtrack.

This story originally appeared in Chinook #5, published by Black Fly Press.

Up and Down the Dial

by Swellison

_Moon rise, thoughtful eyes  
Staring back at me from the window beside  
No fright or hindsight  
Leaving behind that empty feeling inside._

"Fly By Night" – Rush

Sam walked over to the Impala, joining his brother, who was leaning against the hood. Silently, they watched as Haley and Ben climbed into the ambulance, which then drove away from the Lost Creek ranger station.

"Man, I hate camping." Dean spoke lightly, like he hated pitching a tent and cooking breakfast over an open fire—not going head-to-head with a wendigo in its lair.

"Me, too."

"Sam, you know we're gonna find Dad, right?"

"Yeah, I know. But in the meantime," Sam turned his head to face Dean in the moonlight, taking in the square white bandage with its bloody bull's eye on his neck and the matching, smaller bandage on Dean's right cheek. "I'm driving."

Dean wordlessly tossed the keys to Sam—an underhanded throw, Sam noted, less likely to jar sore muscles. Sam stood up and circled around Dean, heading for the driver's side door. The door squeaked open, and he lowered himself into the seat. The passenger door opened seconds later, and Dean joined him. "Push the seat back," Sam said as he and Dean released the lever under the seat in tandem, and the seat was pushed back several inches to its maximum legroom setting.

Sam started the Impala and revved the engine. "Where to?" he asked. A rhetorical question, really, as he turned out of the ranger station's parking lot heading for the main road.

"Back to the motel to pack. Then we're leaving."

"Tonight?" Sam was startled.

"Job's finished. We leave—ASAP. That's SOP, Sammy."

Sam almost asked 'Since when?' but he knew the answer. Sometime in the years he'd been at Stanford, Dad had decreed that when the hunt was finished, they'd blow town immediately. Sam scowled; Dean had always been willing to put Dad's orders over common sense.

"We'll go back to the motel, get a good night's sleep, and then leave in the morning." He'd even phrased it like they both needed the sleep, not just Dean, whose cuts and bruises must still be hurting, even after the pain pills the paramedics had given him.

"That's too late, Sammy. The reporters will be all over town by then."

"I'm sure they will, but we're not the 'A' story here. The 'A' story is the local angle. Roy, the skilled hunter killed by his prey, and Tommy, the miraculous survivor of the grizzly attack. And Haley, the determined sister who went hunting for her lost brother and, against all odds, found him. We're the 'B' story, two tourists caught up in the excitement. By the time the reporters get around to us, we'll be long gone. We won't have disappeared mysteriously in the middle of the night, either. We'll just leave in the morning, after breakfast, understandably cutting our stay short after our harrowing experience."

"The 'A' story? You sound like a reporter, Jimmy Olsen."

"Yeah, well, I took a few journalism classes freshman year." He'd signed up for the classes knowing it would piss Dad off if he knew. John Winchester had had a few run-ins with the press over the years, and his opinion of reporters was unflattering to say the least. "I even worked on the school newspaper. It was a great way to familiarize myself with the campus."

"Familiarize? Another four-dollar word, College Boy?" Dean asked. Before Sam could respond, he added, "But that's good; shows you're thinking again. And I can go back to being the belligerent one."

"Belligerent is a four-syllable word, too. And it's your word, Dean."

"Yeah, well, better a four-syllable word than a four-letter one, huh?"

Sam's mouth twitched. "Why don't you get some sleep? I'll wake you when we get to the motel."

Dean reached for the box of cassettes on the passenger side floor. He opened the box and selected a tape to put in the player.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Huh?"

"Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole, remember?" Sam kept one eye on the road and turned the radio on.

He encountered nothing but static through several channels.

"Reception's lousy in the mountains," Dean said cheerily, reaching again to put his cassette in the player.

Sam kept checking the channels, and suddenly they heard, "Tired of your husband or boyfriend ignoring you? Has he forgotten your anniversary or birthday lately? Well, give me a call and we'll discuss—"

Dean jabbed the radio off. "That's not music, so it doesn't count. Since there's nothing on the radio, we have to listen to a cassette. What do you wanna hear?"

"You choose," Sam said magnanimously. After all, his brother had had a hard day, and Sam was rapidly becoming immune to the mullet rock he was forced to listen to for hours on end.

Dean slipped a Rush tape into the player, then settled back into the passenger seat. A minute later, he was asleep.

Sam glanced over and grinned. Only Dean could fall asleep to the dulcet tones of "Fly by Night" blaring from the cassette recorder.

He let the music play as he drove to the motel. Dean didn't know it, but Sam was driving tomorrow, too, and he was pretty sure that radio reception in the mountains was much better in the daytime.

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_More days to come  
New places to go...  
_"Rock You Like a Hurricane" - The Scorpions

Sam thought they had overstayed their welcome as they finally left the Oasis Plains Open House after Dean's second round of barbeque. ("Had to eat it, they were just gonna throw it out," Dean had justified his last-minute meal.) Larry Pike, their host, had been reluctant to ask any potential buyers to leave before they were ready, so it was turning dark by the time Sam and Dean reached the Impala. To Sam's surprise, Dean tossed him the keys.

"You drive," he said. "I want to check out Dad's journal."

Sam settled into the driver's seat while Dean dug out the light brown leather-covered journal from the backseat. Dean had been the Impala's sole driver since shortly after the wendigo incident. Sam admitted that his constantly playing country music while he'd been driving the first two days out of Colorado might've had something to do with his lack of driving privileges. Perhaps letting Sam drive was Dean's way of mollifying things now, without having to actually say anything.

Sam was mad at Dean—no, that was too strong a word. He was annoyed at Dean… had been ever since their conversation about Larry and his son Matt. It was stupid, really, but he was annoyed that Dean had chosen Dad's side all those years ago, and seeing Matt and Larry arguing had just brought it all back to Sam. ("But sometimes you were out of line…. Bow hunting's an important skill.")

Sam's eyes lit on the radio, a sure-fire way to annoy Dean.

He turned the radio on, looking for something non-mullet rock, and the second station was perfect. It had just started playing an old Chicago love song, sure to max out Dean's sappy-meter. _"Sleepless hours and dreamless nights and far away's. Ooo ooo ooo, wishing you were here."_

"Sam," Dean grunted, "I can't take all that sap on a full stomach."

"You know the rules, Dean."

"And you're heartless," Dean grumbled as the radio played on.

"_Same old show in a different town on another time. Ooo ooo ooo, wishing you were here."_ The radio continued to play.

Sam had forgotten the almost-universal appeal of love songs; you took the lyrics and applied them to your situation. _"Even though you're far away, you're on my mind."_ His thoughts inevitably turned to Jessica. _"Ooo ooo ooo, wishing you were, wishing you were here."_

Dean must have noticed Sam's eyes fixedly directed straight ahead and the too-firm grip on the steering wheel. He reached over and turned off the radio, then buried himself in Dad's journal when Sam turned to look at him. Sam suspected that Dean was using 'the case comes first' to avoid Sam's musical selection when his brother hastily voiced his latest thoughts. "You know, I've heard of killer bees, but killer beetles? What is it that could make different bugs attack?"

"Well, hauntings sometimes include bug manifestations." Sam forced his thoughts back to the case as he drove down the deserted pre-residential street.

"Yeah," Dean continued to peruse the journal, "but I didn't see any evidence of ghost activity."

"Yeah, me neither."

"Maybe they're being controlled somehow, you know, by something, someone."

"You mean like Willard?"

"Yeah, bugs instead of rats."

Sam searched his memory for an explanation. "There are cases of psychic connections between people and animals. Elementals. Telepaths."

"Yeah, that whole Timmy-Lassie thing." Dean turned his head to look at Sam. "Larry's kid has bugs for pets."

"Matt?"

"Yeah."

"He did try to scare the realtor with a tarantula," Sam offered.

"You think he's our Willard?"

"I don't know. Anything's possible, I guess."

Dean glanced out the window at the darkened neighbourhood. "Ooh, hey. Pull over here." He gestured towards the driveway for one of the empty houses.

Sam turned onto the cement pad, killing the headlights. "What're we doing here?" he asked.

Dean slid out the passenger door and rounded the front of the car. "It's too late to talk to anybody else."

Sam spoke through the rolled-down driver's window, not happy. "We're going to squat in an empty house?"

"I want to try the steam shower," Dean retorted, grinning as he flung open the garage door. "C'mon." When Sam's only response was a glare and a headshake, he added, louder. "C'mon."

Sam drove the Impala into the garage, taking the opportunity to slap Dean's stomach as he parked. Dean hastily lowered the garage door, and they entered the house, settling in for the night.

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_All right, I got something to say._

"Rock of Ages" - Def Leppard

Opening the Impala's back door, Sam carefully deposited the cardboard box containing the skulls and bones on the seat behind the driver's side. Then he settled into the driver's seat, still being in possession of the car keys. Possession was nine-tenths of the law, Sam thought as Dean scowled but got in on the passenger side.

They'd spoken as little as possible. Sam had called the community college, which fortunately included an anthropology department, and had wrangled a last-minute appointment with a professor to discuss their find. They didn't have much time to get cross-town to the college, so Sam drove Dean-style—fast.

The quiet inside the car was beginning to bug Sam, but he didn't feel like talking, either. He eyed the radio, then impulsively turned it on. The oldies station that he'd been listening to the previous night was playing an upbeat Billy Joel song.

"_I never said you had to offer me a second chance,"_ Billy Joel sang. Sam knew that Dean wasn't a Billy Joel fan by a long shot—his music was too contrived and not gritty enough, according to Dean. _"I never said I was a victim of circumstance."_

Sam considered the lyrics as he drove. Joel sounded like he was arguing with somebody. Interesting. _"I still belong, don't get me wrong. You can speak your mind, but not on my time."_

Sam noticed Dean's sideways glance at him. "We're burning daylight, Sam." Dean's vocabulary was an interesting mix of current lingo, dialogue from the old TV reruns that they'd watched in countless motels over the years, and a few choice ex-Marine words picked up from Dad.

"We'll get there on time," Sam assured his brother, spotting a road sign for the community college.

They spoke over the radio, which continued to play. _"I don't need you to worry for me 'cause I'm all right. I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home. I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life. Go ahead with your own life; leave me alone."_

Dean switched the radio off. "We're here."

Sam rolled his eyes—trust Dean to state the obvious.

He slowed the Impala as he turned down a tree-lined street, crowded with students. He felt a sudden jab of homesickness. It wasn't Stanford, but the students and the brick buildings set back from the street with their department names painted on utilitarian wooden signs struck a familiar chord. He shook his head slightly. They were here on a hunt, Sam reminded himself, no time for memories.

Sam killed the engine, then got out of the front seat and opened the Impala's back door to retrieve the box of bones. He threw his jacket over the open box, then lifted it out of the car and slammed the door. Dean joined him from the other side, and they started walking towards the Anthropology Building. "So, a bunch of skeletons in an unmarked grave…" Sam spoke as they walked.

"Well, maybe this is a haunting." Dean said. "Pissed-off spirits, some unfinished business."

"Yeah, maybe." Sam paused, and acknowledged to himself that that sort of described them at the moment.

He proceeded with their work, always a safe topic. "The question is, why bugs? And why now?"

"Nah, that's two questions."

Dean paused, then backtracked their conversation. "Okay, so with that kid back there, why'd you tell him to just ditch his family like that?"

"Just, ah, I know what the kid's going through."

"How about telling him to respect his old man? How's that for advice?" Dean said, tight-lipped.

"Dean, come on." They stopped walking and turned to face each other. "This isn't about his old man. You think I didn't respect Dad. That's what this is about."

Dean turned away from Sam and started walking. "Let's forget it, all right? Sorry I brought it up."

"I respected him," Sam said firmly, halting Dean in his tracks. "But no matter what I did, it was never good enough."

Dean searched Sam's face. "So, what're you saying, that Dad was disappointed in you?"

"Was?" Sam inhaled sharply. "**Is.** Always has been."

"Why would you think that?"

Dean sounded honestly puzzled, but Sam quickly launched into his reasons. "Because I didn't want to bow hunt or hustle pool. Because I wanted to go to school and live my life, which in our whacked-out family made me the freak."

"Yeah," Dean reflected. "You were kind of like the blonde chick on _The Munsters_."

Sam found himself unwilling to let his old grievances go. "Dean, you know what most dads are when their kids score a full ride? Proud. Most dads don't toss their kids out of the house."

Dean nodded. "I remember that fight. In fact, I seem to recall a few choice phrases coming out of your mouth."

Sam stared at his brother, knowing that Dean had taken some of the words he'd flung at Dad personally, since their lives and choices had overlapped so much. He shook his head and looked away. "You know, truth is, when we do find Dad, I don't even know if he's even going to want to see me."

"Sam. Dad was never disappointed in you." Dean tried to explain for their absent father. "Never. He was scared."

"What're you talking about?" Sam was almost whispering, but he was listening.

"He was afraid of what could've happened to you if he wasn't around. But even when you two weren't talking, he used to swing by Stanford whenever he could." Dean spelled it out in words of one syllable. "Keep an eye on you, make sure you were safe."

"What?" Sam was rocked by the revelation.

"Yeah."

"Why didn't he tell me any of that?" Sam asked, bewilderedly.

"Well, it's a two-way street, dude. You could've picked up the phone."

Sam eyed Dean, having no easy answer to that.

Dean let him off the hook. "C'mon, we're going to be late for our appointment."

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So, how's that for a dose of nostalgia? Hope you're enjoying the journey and the soundtrack. Please let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

_I set out on the road, Seekin' my fame and fortune, lookin' for a pot of gold._

_Things got bad, and things got worse._

"Lodi" - Creedance Clearwater Revival

After Dad's pointed telephone call, Sam was moody the rest of the night. They already had a layer of silence between them; Dean had refused to rehash the mess they'd just gone through at Roosevelt Asylum, despite Sam's clear signals that they needed to deal with it… work it through. Dad's call had been the icing on the cake, as far as Sam's mood went.

It had also sent Dean into a whirlwind of activity. He got up and dressed, then spent a couple of hours researching the couples' names on the Internet. Afterwards, Dean had packed for both of them, insisting that they were leaving Rockford now. Sam argued in vain that they'd be arriving in southern Indiana in the middle of the night, and what could they do then? But Dean was adamant. They had their orders and they were going. Period.

Sam persuaded Dean to stop for dinner once they'd reached the state line, and even took over the driving after they'd eaten. It was now approaching midnight, and they were in Indiana, driving down a two-lane highway. Sam resisted saying, "I told you so," but he was trying to broach the subject of getting a motel for the night—or what was left of it. Dean was in the passenger seat, head buried in a map of Indiana, as he charted the best route to take, in their search for the missing couples.

Tired of the silence in the car, Sam flipped the radio on, and started punching the Impala's pre-set knobs. The first two buttons had static, but the third one yielded a classical music station, in the middle of a full-orchestra concerto. Recognizing the music, Sam nudged the volume up a couple of notches, earning Dean's glare.

"What is that?"

"One of Bach's Brandenburg Concertos—the third one, I think."

"Dude, don't tell me you took a course in classical music at college."

"I didn't," Sam said. "Jess did. Guess I picked up some of it by osmosis. What we're listening to now is baroque."

"If it's broke, why don't they fix it?"

"Ha, ha. Baroque music is very structured, with a repetitive melody. The complexity of the music improves your thinking. It's great music for solving math problems by."

"Uh huh." Dean didn't seem very interested. "And what math problem are you solving?"

"One plus two equals three," Sam finally muttered, "and how three is greater than one." He'd been chewing on that for hours, really, ever since Dad had bluntly told him to butt out.

Dean shook his head and returned to his map, using the small Maglite resting on his shoulder to illuminate the Indiana map he'd spread over his lap.

Sam listened to the radio for another twenty minutes, then turned it off. He glanced sideways at Dean, looking for a suitable opening conversation topic. He fell back on their current assignment. "All right," Sam said, "so the names Dad gave us, they're all couples?"

"Three different couples, all went missing."

"And they're all from different towns, different states?"

"That's right, yeah." Dean agreed. "Washington, New York, Colorado. And each couple took a road trip, cross-country. None of them arrived at their destination. None of them were ever heard from again."

"Well, it's a big country, Dean. They could've disappeared anywhere." Sam said without much interest.

"Yeah, could've. But each one's route took them to the same part of Indiana. Always on the second week of April, one year after another after another."

"This is the second week of April."

"Yep."

"So Dad is sending us to Indiana to go hunting for something before another couple vanishes?"

"Yahtzee." Dean was on a 'Y' roll with his answers. "Can you imagine putting together a pattern like this? The different obits Dad had to go through? The man's a master."

Sam unexpectedly pulled the Impala off the road, and Dean glanced around as they parked on the shoulder. "What're you doing?" he asked as Sam cut the engine.

"We're not going to Indiana." Sam said decisively.

"We're not?" Dean echoed.

"No, we're going to California. Dad called from a pay phone. Sacramento area code."

"Sam—" Dean began, warningly.

"Dean, if this demon killed Mom and Jess and Dad's closing in on it, we gotta be there. We gotta help."

Dean shook his head. "Dad doesn't want our help."

"Well, I don't care."

"He's given us an order."

"I. Don't. Care. We don't always have to do what he says."

"Sam," Dean tried to reach his younger brother through reason. "Dad is asking us to work jobs, to save lives. It's important."

"All right, I understand. Believe me, I understand. But I'm talking one week, here, man. To-to get answers." Sam spoke honestly. "To get revenge."

"All right, look," Dean soothed, "I know how you feel—"

"Do you?" Sam blurted out.

Dean blinked, startled that Sam would even think of asking such a question.

"How old were you when Mom died, four?" Dean swallowed, and Sam ploughed ahead. "Jess died six months ago. How the hell would you know how I feel?"

Sam could tell from Dean's shaken expression that he felt like Sam had attacked him, dismissing their mom's death as something old and insignificant, since it'd happened to a four-year-old so many years ago.

He watched silently as Dean paused, his brow furrowing in obvious determination not to get into an 'I lost more' contest with his brother. "Dad said it's not safe—for any of us. I mean, he obviously knows something that we don't. So if he says to stay away, we stay away." The world according to Dean.

"I don't understand the blind faith you have in the man." Sam was getting more and more frustrated. "I mean—it's like you don't even question him."

"Yeah," Dean retorted, unconsciously raising his voice. "It's called being a good son."

It seemed like Sam heard his unvoiced, 'You should try it some time.' Sam vacated the driver's seat, slamming the door behind him. Dean got out of the passenger seat. He joined Sam at the Impala's trunk, which Sam had already wrenched open. "You're a selfish bastard, you know that?" Dean was tired of playing nice. "Don't care what anybody thinks."

Sam adjusted the strap of his backpack. "Is that what you really think?" he challenged.

"Yes, it is."

Sam huffed. "Well then," he picked up the laptop in its case and placed the strap over his left shoulder, then reached in to grab his leather satchel, "this selfish bastard is going to California."

"C'mon, you're not serious."

Sam took a couple of steps away from the car and his brother. "I am."

"It's the middle of the night. Hey, I'm taking off. I will leave your ass, you hear me?" Dean threatened.

"That's what I want you to do." Sam stood firm, several feet removed from Dean.

Dean swallowed. "Good-bye, Sam." He slammed the trunk lid shut, took the keys and got back into the Impala, driving off without another word.

Sam watched the Impala's retreating taillights for a few seconds, then resolutely turned and started walking in the opposite direction.

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_Seasons don't fear the reaper__  
__Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain…we can be like they are__  
__Come on baby...don't fear the reaper._

"Don't Fear the Reaper" - Blue Oyster Cult

Sam glanced worriedly at Dean, slumped in the Impala's passenger seat. They were still almost a day away from Nebraska and Roy LeGrange, and Sam knew they should be looking for a motel to spend the night. It was just after four in the afternoon, and Dean had to be hurting from sitting for so long. Although his older brother was amazingly stoic, Sam had heard a few pained grunts and groans from Dean as the afternoon progressed. Getting Dean to admit that he needed to stop and rest for the night was another matter. To be honest, Sam understood why Dean was reluctant. If he had Dean's time span, he wouldn't want to be spending his last— Sam cut off the thought angrily, hands tightening on the steering wheel. No, he wasn't going to go there. That wasn't going to happen. Dean was going to see Roy LeGrange and the specialist would cure him, he **had** to. No other solution was acceptable.

Meanwhile, he needed to see about finding a motel room for the night. "Dean?"

No response. Sam reached his right hand over and gently nudged Dean's shoulder. "Dean? Wake up."

Dean gave a muffled groan, then opened his eyes. He blinked, taking in the sunlight and feeling the Impala's wheels turning as they sped down the highway. He looked at Sam. "Where are we?"

"Colorado—still about six or seven hours from the specialist in Nebraska. I'm looking for a motel; haven't seen an exit in a while, though."

"Sam, it's too early to stop for the night," Dean protested, glancing pointedly at the Impala's clock: 4:05 in the afternoon.

"I know damn well that I'm the reason you're searching for a motel this early, and it doesn't change a thing. Whether I'm sitting in the Impala or lying on a motel bed, everything still hurts."

Sam ignored the plea. Dean had tried his best to conceal his aches and pains from Sam, but he hadn't done too great a job.

"Ah, an exit—finally." Sam changed to the right hand lane, approaching the exit.

Dean glanced at the sign "Centerville." He grumped, then mumbled, "Centerville, Colorado. I know this town for some reason. Have we hunted something here? No, that's not it…"

Sam smoothly took the exit, and the feeder intersected with the town's main drag (conveniently named Main Street) at the first crossroads from the highway. Sam debated which way to turn, but Dean surprised him. "Turn left," he directed, remembering why he recognized this town.

They'd driven four blocks down Main Street, when Dean cautiously raised his right hand, indicating a small shop on their right hand side. "Pull over," he instructed, and Sam eased the Impala into a curb-side parking space.

Sam turned the ignition off and glanced curiously at Dean. "Spin City?"

"It's a vinyl record shop—y'know, old albums. But it's also got the largest cassette selection in the tri-state area." Dean painfully dug into his right jeans pocket and slowly extracted his wallet. He opened it and dug out three twenties, the remnants of his last poker winnings. He'd won with the dead man's hand—aces and eights, and neither of them had thought anything of it at the time. Now, Sam wondered, had it been a sign? But that was pointless. Dean handed the twenties to Sam, who gawked at him, seeking an explanation. "The coolest car on campus has to have decent music. I know what you think of my mullet rock; go and buy something you'll listen to."

Sam swallowed. "Dean, I can't—"

"Yes, you can." Dean met Sam's eyes calmly. "Look, I'm going to Nebraska," he left off the "for you", but Sam heard the unspoken words, loud and clear. "You can do this."

Sam heard the silent "for me" and tucked the twenties into his pocket. He reached for the door handle. "I'll be back," he said as he stepped outside the car.

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean said, leaning his head back against the top of the bench seat, planning on snoozing while Sam shopped.

Sam returned less than a half hour later, waking Dean up when he shut the driver's side door. Sam reached over to put a plastic bag in the backseat, but Dean interrupted him. "I wanna see what you got." Sam handed the bag over and started the Impala's engine. Dean removed a square, blue suede box from the record store bag.

"It was on clearance, and I needed something to keep the cassettes in," Sam said, not mentioning that blue had been Jessica's favourite colour and the box reminded him of her soft blue eyes.

Dean carefully opened the box and prowled through the titles inside. "U2, Nine Inch Nails, Linkin Park, Savage Garden, Nirvana, some classical stuff, too, I see. Not exactly my taste, but acceptable." He held up a soundtrack in disbelief. "_Saturday Night Fever_? Dude, the BeeGees? Sometimes I think I don't even know you."

"Jess grew up listening to it; it was one of her Mom's favourite albums. Mrs. Moore said she couldn't hear it without wanting to get up and dance." Suddenly, there was so much about Jess that he wanted to tell Dean. "Every so often, Jess would pop the CD in, and we'd dance around the living room—sort of a study break. She taught me how to disco dance—even found a white Travolta suit at a retro shop that fit me."

Dean replaced the cassette in the box and closed the lid, and tried to get comfortable, letting his head fall back against the top of the bench seat.

Sam glanced over at his older brother and continued telling his story, lowering his tone. "We entered some of the disco dance competitions around campus… even came in second a couple of times."

"Wish I'd seen that," Dean said drowsily as he slowly drifted off to sleep. Sam quietly drove on, stopping at the first motel he found.

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A/N Hope you're continuing to enjoy the tunes and the ride!


	3. Chapter 3

_Sometimes I get a feeling,  
Deep in my heart  
It's such a feeling that I know we'll never part  
"She Brings Me Love" - Bad Company_

Sam watched from the driver's seat of the Impala while Dean and Cassie said their goodbyes. After a few lingering kisses, Dean stroked Cassie's shoulder with his right hand, then got in the passenger seat. Sam and Cassie exchanged wordless goodbye waves, then Sam drove off, leaving the dock and Cassie behind.

"I like her," Sam said as he drove down Highway 6, heading for their next destination.

"Yeah."

"You meet someone like her. Ever make you wonder if it's worth it, putting everything else on hold, doing what we do?"

Dean glanced at Sam, meeting his brother's stare head-on, a half-smile on his face. He wordlessly put on his sunglasses and scrunched down in the seat. "Why don't you wake me up when it's my turn to drive?" He leaned his head back, resting it on the top of the seat with a satisfied sigh.

Sam flicked his eyes in his brother's direction. Dean had surprised him with Cassie. Not that Dean was capable of loving her, for no one knew better than Sam the depths of his brother's heart, but that he had loved her. For once, Dean had reached out beyond his family. It gave Sam hope, for the first time, that maybe they could both have a life, A.D. - after the Demon.

Thoughtfully, Sam reached for the radio, stumbling on a new country station. Jess had always liked country, especially the female singers. He caught Faith Hill in mid-song.

"_'Cause I can feel you breathe. It's washing over me. Suddenly I'm melting into you. There's nothing left to prove. Baby all we need is just to be…"_

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_I'm not the one to tell you what's wrong or what's right_

"Burnin' For You" - Blue Oyster Cult

Dean and Sam left the Texas bar with Dean's coat strategically slung over his right arm. Not only did it hide the beer bottle stuck to his hand, but also the laughing fisherman wall plaque, that Dean had decided would fit in with their nighttime plans for Mordechai. They approached the Impala, Dean habitually heading for the driver's side.

"Hey, wait up, Dean. You can't drive like that." Sam gestured towards Dean's right hand.

"Whatta ya mean?" Dean glared. "I can drive perfectly fine one-handed, and you know it."

"We're in Texas," Sam said. "And Texas has an open container law, that they're real strict about."

"So?"

"So, you can't drive with that beer bottle in your hand. Give me the keys and get in the passenger side."

"I won't get pulled over; I never get pulled over." It was true, in all the run-ins with small-town cops that Dean had had over the years, none of them had been caused by a traffic violation, despite Dean's well-known lead foot.

"There's always a first time," Sam said stubbornly.

"So? Even if I do get pulled over, the bottle's empty. No evidence." Dean smirked.

"Exactly. Where do you think the cops'll think that beer went? Down your gullet. And since you've got that bottle glued to you, they're not gonna believe that it's the only beer you've had by a long shot. What sober person gets a beer bottle glued to his hand?"

"Me," Dean said flatly. "Or any one else with a mean little brother. Sammy, you went way over the line. We're hunting in a few hours, jerk."

"I know," Sam admitted. "Look, Dean, we can't stand here arguing all day, the bar owners could come looking for their property at any second. Now, give me the keys and let's get out of here."

"Okay," Dean's answer was clipped. He unlocked the passenger door, then tossed the keys to Sam with more force than necessary. Sam didn't say anything, he just circled around the Impala's trunk and got in the driver's side. Once behind the wheel, Sam glanced at Dean. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and started the car instead. He briefly eyed the radio, but vetoed that idea, too. Dean was mad enough at him, he didn't need to aggravate the situation by adding non-Dean approved music to the equation. He drove about a mile, pulling into a strip center and parked in front of a drug store.

Dean glanced at the Walgreen's then back at Sam. "Why're we stopping here?"

"To get some nail polish remover."

"Nail polish remover? Why?"

"Because the acetone in it will remove the glue from your hand."

"Dude, we are NOT walking in there and buying nail polish remover! That's strictly chick territory."

"Honestly, Dean, it's not like we're buying tampons, or anything. I've picked up nail polish and stuff like that for Jess, before. It's no biggie."

"No way," Dean insisted. He glanced at the rest of the stores in the strip center. "Look, there's a hardware store down there. Let's get some paint thinner and be done with it - there's acetone in that, too."

"Dean--"

"Hardware store, Sammy. Now." Dean ordered.

Sam gave in, started the car and drove to the Ace Hardware store on the far end of the strip. He turned the ignition off. "You can stay in the car, I'll get the paint thinner."

"Okay, but leave the keys. I wanna listen to some music."

"Sure." Sam left the keys in place and turned them to the auxiliary setting. As soon as Sam opened the driver's door, Dean reached for his cassettes and shoved a Metallica tape into the cassette deck with his free left hand. He cranked up "Motorbreath" while plotting his next move in the prank war.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_He's just a step away from hell  
Don't look back, don't look back  
Into the strange face of love _

"Strange Face of Love" - Tito and Tarantula

"Yeah, Dad. All right, got it." Dean flipped his cell phone closed and slipped it into his pocket. He turned to face Sam, behind the Impala's wheel. "Pull off at the next exit."

"Why?"

"'Cause Dad thinks we've got the vampires trapped."

"How?"

"He really didn't say," Dean admitted.

Sam floored the car, his jaw muscles clenching, then viciously cut the wheel sharply, pulling over unexpectedly to the shoulder of the road. Dean glanced around as Dad's truck sped up behind them. Sam slammed on the brakes, bringing the Impala to a screeching halt, completely off the main lanes, but perpendicular to the road. John's truck pulled off parallel to them.

"Ah crap, here we go," Dean grumbled as he stepped out of the car, about three seconds behind Sam.

"Sam." John said as he joined his son on the shoulder between the two vehicles. "What the hell was that?"

"We need to talk," Sam said, steamrolling over John's question.

"About what?"

"About everything. Where're we going, Dad? What's the big deal about this gun?"

Dean came up from the trunk side, attempting to defuse the situation. "Sammy, c'mon. We can Q and A after we kill all the vampires."

"Your brother's right, we don't have time for this," John spoke impatiently, but his voice was in a normal tone.

"Last time we saw you, you said it was too dangerous for us to be together." Sam plowed on while Dean cast an anxious glance up and down the roadway. "Now, out of the blue, you need our help. Now, obviously something big is going down and we want to know what."

"Get back in the car." John was a past master at yelling without raising his voice.

"No." Sam said defiantly.

John took a step closer to Sam. "I said get back in the damn car."

"Yeah. And I said, 'no'."

"All right," Dean broke in, "You've made your point, tough guy. Look, we're all tired. We can talk about this later. Sammy, I mean it." Dean grabbed Sam by the coat collar, herding him back to the car. "C'mon."

Sam turned reluctantly back to the Impala, muttering. "This is why I left in the first place."

"What'd you say?" John asked, sharply.

"You heard me." Sam said flatly, turning around.

"Yeah, you left." John continued to approach Sam. "Your brother and me, we needed you." His voice rose. "You walked away, Sam." He grabbed Sam by the coat, then slapped his son's chest in emphasis. "You walked away."

"You're the one who said don't come back, Dad."

Dean's "Stop it, both of you," was ignored.

"You're the one who closed that door, not me." Sam's face was suffused with anger and he was yelling. "You were just pissed off you couldn't control me anymore!"

"I said, stop it. Stop it," Dean stepped between Sam and John, glaring. "Stop it! That's enough!" He pushed Sam back towards the Impala, then faced John unflinchingly. "That means you, too."

Sam and John turned heel, heading for their respective vehicles. Dean lifted his hands, then slapped his sides in frustration. "Terrific," he grumbled as he walked around the Impala's trunk and climbed in the passenger side.

John's truck roared to life and their father backed hastily onto the main road. Sam waited until John was well clear, then backed the Impala onto the highway, following. "You see what I mean? He's so--"

"Shut it, Sammy. I don't wanna hear it." Dean ordered.

"But he--"

Dean turned to glare at Sam.

Sam jabbed the radio on, in a huff. _"Every generation blames the one before, and all of their frustrations--"_

Sam growled and reached to turn the radio off, but Dean slapped his hand away. "This I want to hear. You should, too."

"_I know that I'm a prisoner to all my Father held so dear." _The song continued, _"I know that I'm a hostage to all his hopes and fears. I just wish I could've told him in the living years."_

"Dean--"

"Just listen, Sammy. Might help you gain a little perspective."

By now, the radio was playing the chorus. _"Say it loud, say it clear. You can listen as well as you hear." _Sam took a deep breath, calming down as he drove. _"It's too late when we die, to admit we don't see eye to eye…."_

The end

A/N This story was finished months before the start of season 2 and IMTOD. The Dead Man's Blood song choice turned out to be more prophetic than I thought at the time.


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